


perfect strangers down the line

by singlemalter



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Daddy Kink, Hate Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:47:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23839045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/pseuds/singlemalter
Summary: Seb thinks this game will go on forever.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Sebastian Vettel
Comments: 4
Kudos: 65





	perfect strangers down the line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redpaint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpaint/gifts).

According to every women’s mag, this is supposed to be a slip of the tongue, something buried deep in the speaker’s unconscious.

But he tastes raw intention in the way Charles’ lips curl around the word, his hands on Seb’s back as he hisses, _yes, daddy_. His half-lidded eyes are dark, begging Seb to stop, do a double-take, spill the disgust Charles craves so much.

Sex with Charles always plays out like a game in which he has to avoid getting angry. Seb refuses to give him the pleasure of being hated, though. If he doesn’t rise to the bait, he can pretend he still has the upper hand despite being ten checkers down.

These days, losing suits him more than it does Charles, anyway.

“Go faster,” Charles complains, venomous. “Don’t be weak.”

“Shut up,” Seb spits, angrier at himself than at Charles. “You’re not getting what you want.”

Charles gasps, looks Seb straight in the eye. “Daddy, don’t be like that,” he says, not even bothering to hide his vicious grin. “I am so good for you.”

“Are you?” Seb holds him by the jaw, hard enough to bruise, shoves his face against the pillow to put him in his place for once. “You’re dirty, that’s what you are. You’re a brat who can’t stand being second best.”

“Maybe I am,” Charles murmurs, dragging sharp nails down Seb’s sides. He likes it most when it hurts. “But you love it, don’t you, daddy?” 

“Quiet,” Seb says, clamping his hand over Charles’ mouth. He’s harsher with his thrusts this time around, fucking Charles out of sheer rage, no reservations. The catharsis makes his head spin. “I don’t want to hear you.”

“Daddy, _please_,” Charles begs, whining into the pillowcase, his drool damp on the fabric. Seb’s cock keeps accidentally slipping out of his hole when he gets carried away, the head thick enough to make Charles cry out every time it pushes back inside. “I want to be good for you, daddy, yes.”

His mask crumbles, false bravado wearing off with each broken moan. Seb loves it, feels himself lose his weak grasp on _propriety_ and _humanity_ and all the things he’d thrown off the window by crawling into bed with Charles. “You like when daddy pushes you around? Huh? Tell me.”

The word is sour on his tongue but Charles’ immediate acquiescence is exhilarating. He relaxes under Seb, stops struggling against the hand holding him down. Not for the first time, Seb gets the impression that Charles’ bitten off more than he can chew while trying to rile him up. 

Seb lets go of his jaw, holds Charles’ hips for better leverage. “Look at me,” he says, hating the way Charles’ inaction sparks something violent in his gut. “I’m not gonna ask again.”

“Sorry, daddy,” Charles whispers. Despite everything, he keeps up his demure façade, though he’s clearly choking on regret behind it. “I’m sorry I was bad.”

“I don’t want your apologies.” He thinks this will always be an endless ridge between them: Charles doesn’t understand that this rarely gets him anywhere. He spits on Seb’s face and drags him across the mud only to say sorry. He gets off on the performative, narcissistic work of forgiveness, not on genuine regret. Maybe it’s the extra decade on his resumé, but Seb can’t wrap his head around that kind of superficiality.

Charles looks at him through damp eyelashes, licking his lips. “Then what do you want?” 

He’s thought about this a billion times before, yet the words don’t come to him. Seb wants to tell him to shut the fuck up and take what he’s offered, to lower his head in reluctant defeat. He opens his mouth, closes it again when he realises there’s nothing he can say to Charles that would accurately convey this ugly, heady mix of fiery love and burning hatred. _I hate you, but I want to see you well. I want us both to thrive_. He shakes his head. 

“Nothing? Are you sure?” Charles asks, cradling Seb’s face in his hands. His tone is so saccharine that Seb almost falls for it. “Talk to me, daddy, please.”

“Just shut up,” Seb says, defeated. He kisses Charles, wet and desperate, and slides back into his arse, feels him go impossibly tight around his dick. “I can’t stand this anymore. I just want you to stop fucking with me all the time.”

“Okay,” Charles says. “I promise I won’t do it again, daddy.”

Seb is too smart to believe him, but there’s no point in dying on that particular hill. Wrestling Charles into physical submission is easy; arguing with him is like talking to a brick wall. Instead, he forces Charles to teeter on the edge of orgasm for what feels like hours, a suitable punishment for the most headstrong man Seb’s ever known. 

When he comes, he holds the back of Seb’s neck, whispers, _thank you, daddy_, and that ought to be enough. Two days from now, he’ll be scathing and cruel again, but Seb allows himself this brief moment of respite, pretends they’re friends, not whatever this is.

Many months ago, Seb would have tried to follow this up with a cold glass of water or the offer of an innocent shower. Nowadays, he knows it’s pointless—Charles adamantly turns down any leftover affection Seb throws at him, no matter how small, and Seb no longer has the energy to try.

So he pulls out of Charles with a low grunt, leaving him to clean himself up if he feels like it. Charles doesn’t say a word. His silence rings in Seb’s ears.

Seb’s used to pretending it doesn’t bother him. In the bathroom, he stares at his reflection in the dirty mirror: scraggly beard, messy hair. There’s angry pink lines on his chest and shoulders, probably more covering his back. Looking at himself like this, every last ounce of energy wrung out by Charles’ bullshit, he thinks they’re not that different at all. 

**Author's Note:**

> For Nat, my favourite smut peddler. I Would Die For You Bro.
> 
> Title from _Perfect_ by the pumpkin band or something.


End file.
